


EBB AND FLOW (due for rewrite)

by Oceanspire



Series: Fathom [1]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Gen, Korra (mentioned) - Freeform, Ming (mentioned), Shaozu (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:57:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7893463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanspire/pseuds/Oceanspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all that he is; he moves to bend the water, and the water is bent to move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	EBB AND FLOW (due for rewrite)

Breathe.

Sometimes, he forgets; getting wrapped up in the moment of the movement, the constant adjusting to the wills of the waves, but he never actually stops. He's practiced, has years of training under his belt, flowing through his motions. To forget to inhale would be to forget how to lift the water up into the air - forgetting to then exhale would be like forgetting to spin, circularly gathering momentum and stretch his limbs expertly, directing the water in silvery strips. The water knows him better than he knows himself, has moved him as he has willed it. Since before his baby babbling transformed into the beginnings of a youthful mock-intelligent talking, it moved with him. (The water in the cup was on the counter near him, and being in infancy, when he crankily wailed from his father's arms the rippling at its surface was no mistake, no coincidence, but not intentional.)

Yue sometimes cries for him, as he is one of her many children with the moon in his veins; there is a kinship between him and others like him, disregarded, but there. He had been born with a piece of her power - as she was a fragment Tui, he held the power of her and La within him; the way the muddy swamp puddles shifted uneasily underneath his childish tears proved that. He felt that, from the time that he was a child and he was compelled to sit outside and stare up at the small expanse of sky that wasn't obscured by treetops, he knew that she watched over them as the full, ivory moon. Now, after nineteen years since birth and many months of growth and change, one of the very few facts in his life that hasn't been obscured is that Yue, is home, and La, is solace. Just as the water around him ripples due to his upset, occasionally, perhaps she bends the clouds around her from her perch in the night sky, and cries. Or, perhaps with the progressing times he should disregard such old fables.

Not like he thinks about them often, anyway. Yue doesn't have much of anything to be sorrowful for regarding him. He has had downsides, slumps in his life where bitter frustration wells in his pores, causes his teeth to grind and fists to clench (when he thrashes his arms mid rant, the swamp water splashes up in waves around him, uncontrollable and untouched by the tantrum-throwing five year old; in his older years, it's more or less the same). At the same time, he is still himself.

The city with its opportunities, and his own tireless hard work, lead him to a spot of absolute comfort, where he would never have to work for anything ever again. The haughty confidence which he has always somewhat harnessed explodes, relishing in this newfound wealth, fame, and power. He is flamboyant, drinks up their cheers (screams of awe, good and bad) from a golden gauntlet, feeds on whatever the media writes about him. Arrogant and proud, the ink writes down, printed and copied for anyone to read - talented, master, fantastic, it othertimes displays. All of it is true (his sardonic nature flourishing naturally) so Yue has no reason to shed any tears.

(When he gets caught in the rain, he regards it as nothing more than recognition, a reminder that he always knows when it rains, even in sleep, and her tears don't wet his clothing.)

Still, he breathes.

Reaching up, a fluttering breath falls smoothly from his lungs, even and strong. He lifts up his arms, straight in front of him but elbows slightly bent; his feet are in position, stretched into a steady fighting stance; splays his fingers, neatly. The water in front of him hovers in the air by the will of his fingertips, a line in front of him about six feet across.

He moves like the ocean, ebbs backward by leaning back, left toe dragging gracefully against the floor as his weight shifts completely onto his right. Arms bend further, and the water follows in one fluid motion. Flows when his right hand traces a half circle above his head as his arm moves, shoulder rolling back so that his arms create one line - an arm in front of him, the other behind. As his weight moves forward, his left foot returns to its original position and that is where he stands. The water dances through the air, staring at his left and surfacing in that same half-circle in between hands. He continues to bend the strip of liquid, shifting his limbs as evenly as clouds carried by the wind through the sky; it creates a ring around him, then he makes a sphere of water that can fit in between his hands, and when he stretches out his stance, extends one arm afore him in a quick jab as the other remains behind, the water cracks in the air as a whip. His movements are slow, beautifully elegant and nothing like the speedy succession of attacks he would be throwing if in a match. His hands never curl into fists, footing never falters.

Tahno doesn't think about the moon and ocean spirits, even as he bends the water, surging with power from the light that hung in the inky canvas of night. He couldn't even see the moon from inside the gym, but he could feel it, grounding him, always there in the back of his mind but never apparent. They hardly ever occurred to him amidst all of his other preoccupations, between upcoming championships, training, intimidation, technique. They are his very being, however - the bit of him that is just. (He is mostly of water, it makes up his blood and wraps around his ribs, but his skin is moonlight, eyes silvery pale-blue pools.) He may not thank the moon and the ocean for his abilities every night, but when he bends, he appreciates it; loves the feeling of tranquility that washes over him, or the buildup of raw power. Bending, makes him whole, is who he is.

(He may not grovel at the sight of the moon, but he knows the truth.)

Crouching, he bends one leg completely, while the other remains overall straight and he stretches. His arms become rigid, so the water slides down in the air over him, spills into a bucket. Tahno raises himself up, stretching and listening to the satisfying cracks emitting from his bones.

Truth, really, is a fickle thing. Lying through his teeth has become a habit since his start in the city, and while it may seem undesirable, it was necessary. His success was not bounded by a web of lies, although. When he says that the Wolfbats are unafraid of competition, he is only partly dishonest; when he scoffs in the direction of accusatory reporters, the flip of his hair is truthful; when he tells his teammates that they might as well disband if they lose, he's silver-tongued and guilty. Some lies leave a faintly sour frown marring his angular visage, while others cause him to laugh, expression lighting up toward his humorous murmurings. The Wolfbats, really, have never truthfully been afraid.

A team bounded at first by determination, after three years of reigning success, they were something more (grand and proud and admirable) or something less (petty, insouciant, furious), depending on who was telling their story. He controlled bits and pieces of the drink under his feet, moving to and fro, avoiding shots and twirling outward in the offensive. They provided distractions, shooting balls of fire from extended fists and launching earthen disks toward opponents; where one of them slacked, another picked up. They were a well-oiled machine, cancelling out any flaws and emerging as greatness. Justifiably, they were pompous, a well of confidence and power, but perfect. Immaculate, surely, for they all knew unspokenly where to move, when to adjust, how to twist. He reveled in the fame that they gathered over the years, admired their seemingly hive-mind. They were unbeatable, had been for three years in a row. He used it as a shield, an excuse for his arrogance; they all did.

When they lounged in their reserved booth, it was to simmer in their power, in success. Arms stretched on either side of him, there is a twinge of recognition in the back of his mind, rolling over forms, techniques, the feeling of flowing with the water. He ignores the nagging parts of his mind, opts to wash it away by feeling the tug of the ocean lapping at the nearby shore (that's always been there, always will be there). And instead, his tranquil state focuses on the shoulders that his arms are slung across, listens to the conversations thrown across the table and to the mocking whisper directed in his ear, and his eyes land on blue.

And when he had stood, it was him following the current, going with the flow. Adaptation, perhaps, takes time and practice to master, a tentative shift into place. For those more grounded, being whisked away by impulse and the will of the world is almost impossible. If he ponders it, he understands, but it's placid when he furtherly explains that he could never be so boring. 

The underlying intent of their presence had been intimidation, their timing impeccable; it was a numb surprise when he slunk toward their indirect opponents that night. His means of threat? Intentional, and guilty. She rises up to the baited challenge which he openly displays, accepts it despite her uneased teammate. It's quite perfect - the witnesses that flock either side of him share the tilt that taints the edges of his lips, and he beams down at her jutted chin. Self-satisfied, that is the way that he mocks her. The silver-tinted words which slipped from his tongue seem to swell the challenge in her chest. He almost snorts at the scrutiny which her gaze beholds him, stifles the brewing urge to call her out on her angrily pouting lower lip and the tilt of her head. Baiting, is the mission, but subtly - that's the key. When she throws up her hand in one quick motion, he expects her to hit him.

Maybe that speaks more about his character than a thousand colored words ever could. There are unbridled occasions where his own pride has been bruised, contained by darkened bars and cramped quarters. His lashing fist has proven for more ridicule, a criticism which expands it's willowy reaches all throughout the city. They type about him, talk about him, hone in on his mistakes and his flaws. There is a fine difference between a short-lived rage fueled by the warmth in his blood, and the murmured responses which flood the streets. Leaning back on leather seats, the whine and rasp of the accommodating jazz stimulates his head, loosens his joints while he listens to the buzz of conversation which surrounded him. He breathes in the sweet-smelling smoke, rules out cigars and instead compares it to oak, and lifts plum wine to his lips. There, he is relishing, lounging in the media that he has been receiving. Praise and hate is accepted by open, albeit indifferent ears. Attention is attention, and that is what he strives for, lives in. It fuels the confidence which he exudes, gives him that fearlessness. Fame is what he is determined to keep, and he grasps onto it with a corrupted hold. But, when he leans against the counter of a dark, dampened bar, mouth feeling dry from the many drinks in his system, and he lashes out against an opposing figure, there is always backlash. A fist, and attention. He expects both.

He breaths in.

Doesn't flinch, but the way that his eyes shut is initially due to reflex, and then it's because she has raised her hand to her mouth and whistles rather obnoxiously. The beast's head that crashes through the window has a breath putrid and a roar that jostles his very being, sends him reeling back into the arms of the posse which stayed rooted around him. 

And, well, damn him if he can't adjust.

He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls away from the hands which supported him, straightening to match the victorious posture which the smug-faced competator afore him holds herself with. For a moment, he scowls, stretches his mouth into a line, allows his countenance to flow pleasantly. The movement of his arms relinquishes his surrounding comrades, and as they walk, they pretend not to hear a diminishing, triumphant laughter from behind them for pride, their pride is not to be broken.

Never before has he allowed a pesky dilemma to hold him hostage, and the mocking that follows his latest encounter doesn't count, it's only but expected. Ming and Shaozu fall in at either of his sides wordlessly, a three-maned guard to their collective egos. (They scoff together, smirk at one another's proud humor, radiate the same anger when the time is seen as fit.) It has always been that way, from the time that he dragged himself out of the swamp and escaped to the city; when he'd sought out an auburn haired boy from old money and old Fire Nation colonies and a talented earthbender that worked in his parents grocery. They'd been founded on mutual agreement, all searching for different things that would lead to the same ultimate goal; they were, together and naturally, winners. Tahno understood each of them, and when he idly twirled droplets between his fingers, or launched torrents at targets, they adjusted just the same as he flowed with embers sparking within clenched fists or stomping that shook the very earth.

He has learned from them how to be grounded, and how to burn. The passion which drives him has always been there, fueled by pure, unadulterated determination before succumbing to fortune and fame; it still remains within him, instead by the whim of whatever he is feeling that particular day, or alcohol on his lips. However, he is rooted by earthly tethers to the ground at his feet, stuck to the ivory blanket of moonlit pavement. Couldn't possibly be mistaken for the unfathomable ways of fire or earthbenders - he is much too fluid, fickle. Unique in the ways that they are a part of the world, the Wolfbat pack is still connected, if he still believes anything that the swamp has told him. Everyone is still connected. That doesn't mean that he reminds himself of those facts (or fiction, depending on who you're asking) when he peers feline toward salty competators, the Avatar and duo of misfit street-rat possums. With a curl to his lip and a swing to his hips he takes the stage with companions at his side, King of the arena. Circular motions - he spins and takes up water in his grasp, lashes out in quick jabs to send focused blows at enemies. He's the lightest on his feet, slips between projectiles whizzing past his ears. Twirling around to avoid a carefully thrown disk, there's only two more left to knock out, and he steals the show. Qualifies.

He doesn't pretend not to see her shocked face toward the rounded hole in the glass of that sorry-sucker's helmet, basks in her newly-apparent trepidation, but she doesn't see him anyway.

One last celebration that night ravages the town before the Championships take place. He's dressed in a tailored outfit, long coat a stylish slate gray, trimmed finely. He puts oils in the water of his sink before bending it to his head, finds his hair shinier in beach-side waves and smelling faintly of roses when he's done. It's underneath the starlight that they dance, live music boisterous. Some girl takes him by the arm when he arrives, claims him for the night and when he looks down at her bob and amber eyes and diamonds hanging from her ears, he decides that he doesn't mind. Listens to the clips of her accent throughout the night, drawls in elegant response. They twirl around the dance floor when the faint, misty clouds clear from the sky and the sliver of moon is reflected in the fountain water. He never misses a step, finds it familiar and comfortable, the movements, but she stumbles; trips, taps her toe with his, leans her body closer in a way that he (faintly amused through his buzz) thinks isn't unintentional. They talk of success, and she giggles; charmed, surely searching for something more. He is generous with his tales of rising to stardom, finds it fitting that the clear night is upon them. There, he relaxes, allows his shoulders to sag and his limbs to stretch as he speaks with champagne on his tongue; relief from daily life is drunkenly placed upon him on nights like these. It's refreshing, like a cool drink of water on a blaringly hot day. (No one can blame him for letting go of one party in place of another, when it's up and training late the next night.) He still feels the laziness guiding his movements, a gentle sway to his frame, tranquility to his mind. Even on nights where he does not fret what is to come, when someone excuses him from his date and levels their mouth with his ear and orders him to go wild, that it's all paid for and he just needs to win, well.

Well, that's just his life.

Tahno still fancies himself indestructible, untouchable. He's worked and gambled and clawed his way from bottom to top and there isn't anything that could ever change that. If that means cheating, then so be it. He doesn't mind, conforms to the holds of the restrictions lifted, takes special attention in doing what he must.

But, when there is a threat looming over his head with the same sureness as the tip, he is less inclined to follow directions. (And laughs at the mask in the newspaper, despite whatever he may be feeling.) Because, well, if the Fire Ferrets are going to arrive to take the prize upon his absence, and the crowd will be attending to watch, and the artificial lights are going to shine down on him and his eventual victory? There isn't a chance that he would willingly back away. If anything, he is not a coward, and he has never truly backed down. Manically plotting in the shadows, he strikes when the time is right - he lashes out at confrontation and he takes what he deserves, what keeps him afloat in the sea of life. The world knows him as the best waterbender that there is; he can will and mold a very essence of survival by the movements of his fingertips, it speaks to him on levels no person could ever accomplish, it knows him like it is him and it is. That title, he does not wear in vain. That life? He lives. Tahno, is invincible, untouchable, indestructible because that is what the water wills, what life has brought him; that, is his everything. He would be a fool not to step up and remain in his place over the drink. He fights valiantly. 

He fights. Dishonestly. 

And he would have traded anything to take it all back.

The cheating seems much more sinister, all the lying and deceiving throughout the years blocking comprehensive words from escaping his throat.

He would have given anything (I'll give you everything, please!) to tediously retrace his steps. He has always gone with the flow of the current, letting it carry him, but he can't possibly believe that the water has lead him to such a fate. 

And the water slapping against his skin is unwelcoming, which brings bile to his throat, disbelief to his mind. How? (howhowhowhowhowhowhow how how how)

(It mocks him)

Sputtering, he somehow drags himself onto some form of land, would have recoiled against its touch if not for the numb shock coursing through his veins. Sloshing uncomprehensively through his body, he in someway figured out how to thrash his limbs and swim to safety (safety, disgusting and putrid and- wrong). It's wrong, crawling over his skin, droplets of water burning on his sickenly pallor. Exhaustion sweeps over him before he can shakily grasp his way fully out of the drink, so his legs dangle in (in what? in what? there is nothing there, nothing that he can feel. there is no connection, no call, no ripple, no ripple. empty.) the water (which he feels faintly on his legs but cannot feel) as his arms give out from under him. The world succumbs to blackness. Empty, as he was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But, he is picked up by someone, dragged by the arm out into the open; evacuated from the scene of the crime. His eyelids droop dangerously, his head lulls like he is lifeless. He feels as though he is on fire, skin red from a rising fever, and the pavement scraping against him as he is brought outside does nothing to help, nor does the night air.

 

 

 

 

 

Limbs deadweight, he is released and strewn on his back. Faintly, he thinks that he can hear shouting in the distance, feels it against his skull, somewhere. (It is all so blurry that he doesn't know what is true.)

 

 

 

 

Shaking fingers numbly scrape weak against the rough concrete, raw and bloodied, reaching out for not something physical, but what should be in his mind. He is empty (empty, empty, empty, empty). He can't reach it. His eyes shut again, useless body tired and unmoving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The flashing red and blue harsh against his eyelids cause him to turn his head away. He opens his eyes; can't manage more than peering out through heavy, slow blinks. The screeching sounds of sirens is smothered by quiet, and the ringing in his ears is faint but the only thing clear. He wants to find comfort, feels disregarded somewhere in the deep corners of his mind. There are no tears to wash away his pain. His tongue feels dry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he looks up toward the sky, he doesn't think that he's ever seen the moon shine any brighter.


End file.
